


No more gasping for a breath

by errantknightess



Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Asphyxiation, Canon-Typical Violence, Claustrophobia, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Zegnautus Keep, a bit of a twist on MT!Prompto, because Ardyn has a sick sense of humour
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-28
Updated: 2020-03-28
Packaged: 2021-02-28 22:28:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,534
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23364724
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/errantknightess/pseuds/errantknightess
Summary: Deep in the bowels of Zegnautus Keep, Prompto is released to greet his dearest friend.
Relationships: Prompto Argentum/Noctis Lucis Caelum
Comments: 14
Kudos: 129





	No more gasping for a breath

It’s dark and he can’t breathe.

The blinding expanse of snow and freezing mountain air seem like a distant dream now. Prompto doesn’t know how long it’s been since he’s been captured and brought here – wherever _here_ is. Fading in and out of consciousness makes it hard to keep track of things.

There are no windows in his cell; no steady footsteps of patrols echoing down the hallways. Nothing to measure the passing time but the growing pain in his shackled arms and legs. His lungs are ready to burst, his own ribcage forcing the air out of him.

It’s almost a relief when four MTs barge in and pull him down from the stretcher.

They drag him through a maze of corridors, crowding him in a tight ring of metal bodies. He doesn’t fight. He can’t summon the strength – nor his gun.

Reaching for it feels like missing the last step down the stairs. There’s just an empty space where the connection used to be – the same gaping void that opens in his stomach when he thinks of what that means.

_Has Noct cut him off?_

The thought hurts more than anything in his body. But he _hopes_ that’s it. The only other reason that comes to mind is too much to handle.

The room they take him to looks like an old, messy lab. Most of the space is taken up by a hulking mechanical contraption. Prompto takes in the exposed gears and pistons, and tries not to think about how it works. But he knows he’s about to find out anyway.

Ardyn is already waiting for him.

“There you are,” he greets with a flourish, like a ringmaster about to unveil his greatest act. “Let us begin, shall we?”

He steps aside and watches as the MTs strap Prompto to the machinery.

It whirrs and clangs into motion behind him. His whole body shivers with the vibrations. Cold, hard braces clench around his ankles. Then around the shins. Then thighs.

He’s clasped in metal up to his waist by the time he realizes what this _is_.

“That’s better. All dressed up for our special guest.” Ardyn’s smug smile is the last thing he sees as the steel mask clamps over his face. “Your precious prince has been looking _everywhere_ for you, all by his lonesome. You wouldn’t want to keep him waiting, now would you?”

The machine releases him with a hiss. He falls to the ground, legs folding under the weight of the armor. The impact rings in his ears over Ardyn’s mocking voice:

“Skip along. I’m sure he’s _dying_ to see you.”

So he runs.

The narrow corridors are closing in on him. Every turn looks the same. Not that it matters – he’s been knocked out when they’ve first brought him in. He picks the way blindly and doesn’t think twice about it. Doesn’t look back. Doesn’t stop.

It’s dark and he can’t breathe.

The metal plate is pressing right into his sternum, leaving no room for his chest to expand. The sparse air he can catch comes in through a tiny grate at his mouth; its jagged edges push past his lips, scraping against his teeth and gums. He tries to tear it off, but it sits tight. Everything’s tight. The entire armor is molded to his body like second skin.

Tailor-made. A perfect fit.

It feels like eternity, but it can’t be long before he loses the rest of his strength. He still forces himself to move, dragging his legs as they buckle with the added ballast of steel. There’s no way he’ll let them give out on him now.

He’s run hundreds of miles for Noct once. He can do it again.

The shadows up ahead flicker with a sudden movement. There’s no mistaking it in the stillness and silence of the hallways. Prompto stays close to the wall and watches, heart thudding against his ribs. A dark figure sneaks quickly from niche to niche, crouched low with a sword in hand.

The visors in the helmet are small and foggy, but he still recognizes Noct. He’d recognize him anywhere.

Prompto hauls himself towards him, grabbing onto the wall for support. The damn metal trap jangles with each heavy step. Noct looks up, alerted. His face is tired, eyes shining with something hunted in the dim light.

For a moment, they stare at each other across the hall. Then, Noct lifts his sword and breaks into a run.

Prompto is almost grateful for the armor when he lands the first blow.

He slams back into the wall, head bouncing off the concrete. Noct’s face hovers inches before him, furious and desperate. They’re so close that for a second Prompto prays he would somehow see inside and notice him there.

But then Noct pulls away, swinging to strike again.

Prompto raises his arms, a feeble attempt to shield himself. He knows it won’t do much; he’s seen Noct fight enough times.

The force of the blade sends him stumbling, and then Noct kicks him in the stomach for good measure. He crashes to the ground, flat on his back, the low ceiling spinning over his head.

_Why wouldn’t I want to kill you?_

_What are you after, following me around this whole time?_

_It’s all YOUR fault—_

He wants to scream – call out to Noct – _beg_ him – but he can’t. The air stalls in his throat. Panicked, he looks down, his vision starting to swim on the edges.

The breastplate is bent, pushing into his ribs, squeezing and crushing him like a vice.

He can’t breathe.

Noct is still raining blows on him, driving the metal further into his chest. Prompto heaves a dry wheeze; distorted by the helmet, the sound comes out as hollow static. Noct winces and strikes again, bashing the pommel of the sword into his head.

It ruptures the front plate all the way down his cheek. A few bits chip off around the visor, grazing his brow. Through the crack and the daze, Prompto sees Noct’s face blank for a second—

Rage giving way to horror.

The sword clangs to the floor as Noct lunges for him again. He tears at the beat-up metal with his bare fingers, pries it apart and yanks the mask off. Prompto howls as the mouthpiece pulls at his lip. Something warm trickles down his chin. Noct reaches up and gently wipes it off, thumb shaking against his lips.

His hand lingers, cradling Prompto’s face for a blessed split-second.

Prompto whimpers, pulling weakly at the breastplate.

Noct follows him down with his eyes. They go wide with sudden understanding, and he mouths a curse as he turns to grab for the sword. He digs the blade between the seams and works it frantically, pushing hard until he forces the armor open.

Air comes flooding Prompto’s lungs. He breathes in, in, in, with quick, greedy gasps. They hurt like hell, but he can almost ignore that. It’s never felt this good to just _breathe_.

Noct keeps wrestling with the plates, peeling them off one by one. Prompto feels lighter with each as they drop. Once he’s done, Noct throws the last piece of metal to the ground and leans closer. His eyes drag over Prompto’s face, pausing where it throbs and stings with the fresh cuts. He opens his mouth, and for a moment looks like he also is struggling to breathe.

And then he pulls Prompto in, holding him fast.

Prompto freezes as it washes over him again, cold steel closing on his body, biting into his flesh, trapping him in.

But the arms that wrap around him are warm and careful, and the body pressing so tight to him is soft and _right_. He sinks into the embrace, slumping against Noct like there are no bones left inside him. His hands come up to clutch onto Noct’s shirt, and if he digs his knuckles a little too hard into Noct’s back, neither of them takes notice.

“I’m sorry.” Noct’s whisper skims over the shell of his ear. “I wasn’t— I didn’t… I’m _so_ _sorry_.”

His face is buried in Prompto’s hair, but Prompto can tell he’s crying, feels the damp eyelashes fluttering against his temple and the way Noct’s throat hitches with a choked sob. His own throat starts burning with tears as well, but he does his best to swallow them down.

“Don’t be,” he says hoarsely.

Noct pulls back a little, just enough to stare him in the eye. The look on his face is one Prompto’s never seen before – and hopes to never see again.

And he doesn’t. In the next heartbeat, Noct closes the gap again, softly pressing his lips to Prompto’s forehead.

“I won’t fall for any more of his tricks. I’m never leaving you again.”

The promise sinks in, hot on his skin.

Prompto smiles a tired smile, letting that warmth seep through his body. He leans his head onto Noct’s shoulder and squeezes his eyes shut. Noct’s chest rises and falls evenly against his, slow and steady. He tries to match that rhythm, counts it out until it’s the only thing in his mind.

Just darkness and their breaths.

**Author's Note:**

> I've had this lying around since Whumptober last year... well.  
> Thank you for reading! Come say hi on [twitter](https://twitter.com/Err_417), where I sometimes post fanart and silly headcanons.


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